Rock and Roll and Reality
by NickyFox13
Summary: Matthew's half-brother Alfred is in a band, and Matthew's life has become all the more complex for it because he just had to be stupidly attracted to the spunky hot drummer who got into too many fights. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Written for two challenges on "The Anime and Manga" Challenges forum: "The Diversity in Writing" challenge and "The 52 Pickup" challenge. Also, this AU was inspired by Tumblr. This will be a multi-chap with eventual slash. Updates will be as frequent as possible.**

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The first year of Matthew Williams' college experience was, in short, hell. He realized that cursing made himself sound melodramatic, but it was a necessary way to describe how he felt. Matthew took pride of his calm demeanor, and the fact that he rarely lost his temper. He made an attempt throughout his life to make sure his emotions stayed even. Matthew knew that success was the best, most important option in his life. His ambitions made him want to work with the amount of diligence that made others gape at him in awe.

The way he approached life was through taking that heated desire to succeed and applying what he learned to something more tangible, where he'd achieve results through sheer force of will. Matthew's mindset leaned toward the idealistic, romanticized version of ambitious. It got him through the weeks and months, so at least it acted as a solid way to motivate himself to be the best version of himself. He wasn't perfect, but Matthew liked himself well enough.

Regardless of his inner thoughts, Matthew felt like he was the most overlooked student in his entire school. It was an exaggerated thought for even the most reserved introverts, such as himself, to say. But Matthew couldn't help but feel as if it were true. The first day of classes exactly one year ago as a freshman fresh out of high school (he was an adorable freshman, if Matthew said so himself), for example, everyone called him by his older half-brother's name, Alfred Jones.

Looking back, he wasn't so sure why he attended the same college as his half-brother. Matthew and Alfred were different as water and oil. Cliches aside, Matthew's ambition level was entirely different than Alfred's, Alfred wanted nothing more than to get a two-year degree and focus full time on his music. This was an utter insult to their parents, who wanted the best for their babies. Matthew supported Alfred's band by not trashing it publicly. On a good day, Matthew would sometimes convince their parents that it wasn't a terrible idea for Alfred to make a band in the first place. It was a waste of talent to not play.

Being mistook for each other started a little after Matthew's mother married Alfred's father when Alfred was two years old. Matthew would've thought that the age difference, which was a noticeable gap in children due to varying growth and emotional milestones, made some difference. However, Matthew and Alfred grew up together in a sleepy, quaint suburb near to the bigger town, where everyone was engrossed in their own lives and obsessing over the gloss of their white picket fences, where whoever had the most lush garden of flowers (Matthew grew up around bushy lavender, vividly magenta azaleas, pale pink heather, and a rainbow of bougainvillea) and whether or not their grassy lawns were the proper shade of green. They loved each other like brothers, even if they were as different as night and day.

Despite being half-siblings, they looked remarkably, strikingly similar. Matthew, in the most grudging manner possible, admitted that he could understand why people would frequently mistake them for each other. They both had blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and fair skin, with lanky limbs, and a towering height without an intimidating build to match. Matthew grew his thick, wavy strawberry blonde hair to his chin in spite, even if his mother disapproved of this decision every step of the way. He attempted to dye it a redder blonde at one point, but that was a disaster because the dye ended up making his hair look like the color of blood. Much like his decision to grow his hair, his mother disapproved of the dye with a louder sense of disapproval. Alfred laughed along at the mix ups, but that was because he still retained his identity in the process; nobody seemed to call Alfred Matthew, and that fact made Matthew resentful as a child and even as a teenager.

Matthew wouldn't have minded the current mix ups in college, if it wasn't for the fact that each professor in each and every class he took that semester mistook him for Alfred. Taking fifteen units over the span of five classes was difficult enough to handle as a freshman. Having the difficulty of a constant reminder that nobody could get his name straight made class much more depressing. He hated the loss of his identity; being engulfed by Alfred's impossibly long, wide shadow made Matthew feel a pang of sadness buzz through his veins. Whenever a professor looked Matthew in his bespeckled blue eyes, and made no attempt to remember the differences that made them unique, felt like a slap in the face. It took eight weeks for the professors, which was about the time of midterms, and when grades started truly mattering, for Matthew to be Matthew. It took three discussions with his academic advisors, three separate discussions with each of his five professors and a near sobbing panic attack on Matthew's part in order to help his professors remember he was Matthew fucking Williams.

After figuring out the fact that Matthew was indeed his own person, he faded into the background even though he joined an active book club and the quite successful hockey team. It was a shame that he was only noticed when his peers desperately needed to study for an important test. When Matthew was feeling generous, which was all too often, he let people cheat off of him during tests. Being overlooked had its perks, like being able to afford to skip class with minimal repercussions. The very first time he ditched class, he missed a pop quiz that was supposed to help everyone essentially failing the second quiz of the semester; he somehow secretly convinced his professor that there were no cheaters in the class with those who cheated off of him didn't get suspicious grades. Matthew did well enough that they passed the test without too much suspicion; any discussions the cheaters had, Matthew overheard but pretended he didn't know a thing.

With that in mind, it was a fact that he didn't use curse words to describe such broad concepts like school in a light or trivial manner. Overall, it could be said that Matthew was an optimist, and a reliable one at that; at any given moment, he'd find a way to see the best in life, even if the cynical, snarky pessimist hiding deep within nagged at him from time to time. However, it was a more reliable outlook to may even become his downfall. Anyone could trust him to act in a reliable manner. Events that didn't go horribly were still noteworthy, because it meant there was a spark of positivity to cling on and remember. On an academic level, school wasn't difficult. If anything, Matthew didn't feel challenged enough. He had to take basic general education courses his first year and a half of college, not because he wanted to but he had to in order to graduate. Matthew hated that he felt these classes were more like fluff rather than anything worthwhile to keep in his brain.

Once Matthew learned to accept that he would be forgotten and overlooked, he realized it was a good thing to remain undetected. Staying under the radar meant he got away with more than the average sophomore. Matthew drank alcohol every so often. Despite his lanky frame and height of five feet and ten inches, he was able to hold his liquor, plus he was able to be picky because he didn't get drunk easily. This opinion arose, not because he particularly strong feelings for the drink, but because campus was strict about their students consuming any substances that could cause any damage at all. The part of Matthew that was too easily influenced by Alfred liked the adrenaline rush of being rebellious.

In this moment, as Matthew had a bottle of tequila in hand to walk back to his dorm and get himself through the next few difficult political science papers, an unfamiliar body rammed into Matthew's own.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" Matthew hissed. No response. He would've hated to interact with anyone before a paper.

 _Tonight would be a long, long night,_ Matthew thought as he sipped tequila before settling down to write his multitude of essays. This wasn't how he imagined spending a Thursday night. It wasn't like he had much better to do as he got comfortable sitting at his dorm-provided desk, which was too short for his height, an annoyance he was forced to deal with.

After forty five minutes of writing his essay engulfed by the ambient music playing in the background, Matthew heard a loud barrage of screaming without any warning. Matthew became alarmed when he heard a screeching, high pitched scream. He ran out of his room, not caring that he was wearing his rattiest jeans and his most stained shirt. It was laundry day, and he was out of quarters, which explained his appearance; that was his excuse, and he stuck to it.

What Matthew saw stunned him into a frozen, fearful silence for a brief moment. From what Matthew could see, the unfamiliar body was being harassed-no, _attacked_ -by some angry, drunk juniors.

He knew he recognized the unfamiliar body because it was the same one that rammed into him earlier. The scuffed, black boots with chunky buckles, faded blue-black jeans and black band tee with dyed silver-blonde, roots showing through, was a distinct look at an otherwise bland college; he looked grungy and unwashed, and having a split lip, a black eye and bruises and cuts everywhere didn't help make him look any better.

Before Matthew had the sense to think logically and realistically, he jumped into the fight to defend the grungy looking boy. He barely survived with a lot of bruises, cuts, and scratched; the juniors stumbled off when he threatened to call the campus police. Matthew looked a little worse for the wear, but at least he wasn't looking like he ran through death like the grungy dude had.

"You okay?" Matthew asked, tentative. He cursed himself for asking this. Of course he wasn't okay! He was just in a fist fight.

"I suppose I could be worse." At least the grungy guy had a sense of humor through it all. Matthew couldn't help but smile at this.

"Wanna crash at my dorm for the night?" Matthew deliberately trailed off to learn the grungy guy's name.

"Name's Gilbert, don't wear it out," Gilbert wheezed, then grabbed Matthew's hands to lean on his body. This must've been Gilbert's way of accepting Matthew's offer of crashing for the night. Matthew's face got hot; he hadn't ever been this close to a strange guy since Alfred set him up with that disastrously hilarious date with Francis last year.

As Matthew dragged a limping, bruised, bloody Gilbert to his dorm, Matthew thanked any holy deity that would listen upon realizing he would be in for a long night taking care of a stranger.


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew remembered why he didn't drink that often: hangovers. The pulsating headache that made him woozy and unbalanced reminded him of his burning hated hangovers. As he grumbled himself awake, the pain from interfering in last night's fist-fight finally kicked lumbered across the room, sore and groggy, to get dressed. Looking in the mirror was a disaster. Most of the remnants of the fight were surprisingly minor: cuts here, small bruises there, and a scab or two. The worst part about his fight was the fact that he had a black eye that bloomed around his face like a malformed flower. At least the yellowing bruise brought out the blue in Matthew's eyes.

Matthew jolted awake fully when he noticed Gilbert sleeping soundly in the bed that was supposed to be occupied by Matthew's weird, stoic Dutch roommate Lars. (Lars rarely slept in the room due to being abnormally close with this cute Belgian girl, Mathilde; it was to the point where Matthew often forgot he had a roommate. It was a perk to basically have a cheaper single, with all of the perks of a roommate.) Gilbert's breaths were labored, indicating he still felt pain. He was wrapped up in the extra linens Matthew had in his room for emergency situations like this. That meant Matthew couldn't gage how beat up Gilbert looked. Despite Gilbert's wiry frame, he had a thin coating of muscle. He put up a decent fight, if Matthew remembered correctly. Staring at him meant that Matthew could notice the little things. He noticed the curve of Gilbert's surprisingly enticing lips. The sharp jawline with dirty blonde stubble that didn't match the silver dye of his hair whose roots were showing, and the twitching of his thighs that ultimately relaxed into sprawling out from the side of the bed were what made Gilbert human. Matthew's heart raced and his face turned red with an embarrassing blush. Staring at a guy

Most importantly, Matthew noticed Gilbert's breaths were steady and consistent. Matthew was no doctor but it seemed as if Gilbert was likely well enough to sleep through the night with few disturbances; the fact that he could sleep through Matthew's clomping movements was another good thing. Gilbert looked so calm that Matthew worried about waking him.

Anxious questions plagued through Matthew's racing mind. What if he needed more rest? What if waking him would be the reason he didn't get better soon enough? He stopped himself from inciting a panic attack long enough to make a decision with Gilbert. Matthew began poking Gilbert, light enough to not being painful but firm enough to register.

"Gilbert?" Matthew whispered. He prodded. "Gilbert!" His voice was louder this time. He hoped Gilbert woke up. Not because he wanted the other guy to leave. In fact, if it were up to Matthew, he'd let Gilbert become his roommate; it was kind of awesome having him in the room to talk during the few moments in which he was lucid. Matthew's first impression of Gilbert was that of an exuberant, hotblooded shithead full of insecurity and a desperate desire for approval. The second part of his statement was based in armchair psychoanalysis; Gilbert fought the jerks whilst simultaneously looking back at Matthew with what looked like a longing glance that begged for Matthew to approve. Gilbert was indeed a bright character.

Gilbert sauntered awake like a lazy cat after a long nap in a sunny area.

"Where am I?" Gilbert asked, voice thick and groggy.

"You're in my room. You got in a fight last night and you were incredibly hurt. I can't believe you don't remember that," Matthew said with a small smile.

"I remember the fight, and I remember asking you to crash. But I blanked on everything else." A heartbeat's length of silence befell them.

"How are you feeling, Gil?" Gilbert blinked as slow as molasses to take in the question with confused awe. He laid on his stomach, and lifted himself up by leaning shakily on his forearms. Matthew came to a realization: Gilbert was likely bewildered at the usage of a nickname from Matthew's mouth. Matthew came to a second realization: that Gilbert might not have been used to being treated like...this. Like a genuine friend. There was a first time for everything, Matthew supposed. At the very least, Matthew had a new friend.

Gilbert shrugged. "Better than yesterday that's for sure. I could be so much better though."

"Do you want to stay another night? My roommate isn't gonna be around."

"Sure, I guess. It'll be nice to be conveniently located on the first floor." Before Matthew could launch into discussing the logistics, Gilbert narrowed his eyes at Matthew. Matthew's heart palpitated, fear racing through him. What was Gilbert doing, staring at Matthew like that?

"You look distractingly familiar!"

Matthew sighed. He figured this conversation would come up sooner or later.

"Yes, dude, Alfred Jones is my idiot half-brother. No, I won't hook you up with him. He's a free spirit," Matthew recited with a hardened face in a pained, monotonous voice. His entire body went tense. Matthew's face softened when he noticed that Gilbert sat up to move his body to wrap himself up in the linens, as if to protect himself from Matthew.

"I..woah, man. I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to say that I play drums in his band, and that he talks of you highly." Gilbert offered.

"Well, that was awkward. Foot in mouth syndrome, much?" Matthew said with an embarrassed chuckle. Gilbert let out an awkward laugh, which made Matthew feel worse. It couldn't been worse: Gilbert could've hated him and left to languish, only to blame Matthew for his lack of own personal health.

"You should come visit the band. Even though I'm the drummer, I'm a great one. It would be nice to have some moral support. We've lacked a little bit of spirit lately," Gilbert said. Matthew beamed, honor flowing through him at the invitation.

"What time's practice? I have class until four fifteen today."

"Matthew, I'm ashamed that you don't know your own half-brother's band schedule."

Matthew scoffed. "I'm not his keeper." Gilbert raised a confused, but light hearted eyebrow. Matthew dismissed Gilbert's eyebrow raise with a handwave.

"You seem like the type to know this type of shit. You're all organized and whatever, that's all," Gilbert explained, leaning his back on the plain white wall. He seemed comfortable, with his lanky legs, covered by a ripped black pair of skinny jeans that emphasized the muscles in his calves and thighs, hanging over the edge of the bed.

"I've been once. It was a nightmare. Apparently Alfred and his band of freaks attract a bunch of horny girls and guys." Gilbert laughed a genuine belly laugh.

"This must've been before my time. I don't remember ever giving a free show to anyone during our practices."

"The drummer before you was my roommate, Lars, actually." Gilbert looked shocked, confused, a little weirded out.

"You mean that green eyed silent guy who hovers around Mathilde?" Matthew nodded. "Damn, Matt. I never knew. That's some...interesting trivia." Matthew looked at the watch. The hands glared at him to say that it was nine twenty two in the morning.

"Shit," Matthew exclaimed, "I've got eight minutes to get to class."

"Well, get moving you freak! I can take care of myself well enough." Matthew bolted out of the room. His baggy, faded mustard yellow shirt, with orange and bright gold accents and navy blue jeans, barely held up by a bright blue and yellow checkered belt, billowed behind him. His shoes were green, blue, and purple, making him all too visible. If he were an animal, his prey would be able to spot him super quickly. His bright neon ensemble made him look as if a bunch of highlighters had a party and threw up on him after a night of drinking.

He still miraculously made it to his three classes without causing much of a disturbance. It was nice having something to look forward to after his classes. The very thought of being close to Gilbert made Matthew's heart flutter. The fact that he didn't over think the invitation was a good sign of things to come.


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew believed that music was a universal language. Everyone listened to it. Everyone could name at least five songs that affected their lives in some way. Matthew believed that a person who claimed not to listen or enjoy music was a damned liar, and a terrible one at that. Who could say they didn't enjoy or listen to music with a straight face? Not anyone Matthew knew. Music got him through the tough times, from big moments like when his divorced parents bitterly fought with each other even after the papers were finalized to small things like test anxiety. Having something blasting in his ears, blocking

WIth his enthusiastic love of music in mind, it seemed downright hypocritical of him to not be more excited and supportive of Alfred's dream to play music in his band. In fact, that wasn't the case.

...Okay, so it was the case.

Matthew couldn't bring himself to care too deeply about Alfred's band. It wasn't an intentional lack of interest, though. Matthew could convince himself and others of that simple fact. Matthew knew that Alfred was the lead singer, and a damn good one at that. Alfred also played the electric guitar, but singing was Alfred's passion. He had a unique sound, one that was cultivated by years of vocal training and practice and an intense, overwhelming desire to be the best in the world. That sense of dedication was laudable. If Alfred knew of the Matthe knew Alfred could get competitive, which seemed ridiculous at times to laid back Matthew, who didn't particularly have strong competitive bones in his body. It seemed especially ridiculous since Alfred wasn't competing against anyone else but his past self. He constantly compared himself to other bands, too; their failures were teaching points, and their successes were points of inspiration. That kind of grandiose aspiration, a fiery and never ending one, laced with determination and diligence, was a lethal combination.

 _This kind of manic energy could be Alfred's downfall one day_ , Matthew thought morbidly. Alfred was too full of fierce resolve, too set on success, too set on his satisfying his ego for failure. Matthew didn't need proof of Alfred's passion. The glint of his bespectacled blue eyes, flickering with ambition and fire, and the easy set of his mouth told enough stories of their own. It still seemed appropriate to stop by for an official look at a band practice, especially since Matthew knew Gilbert was there. It seemed strange how much thought Matthew put into this. It seemed especially strange how clear his brain was since he came out of a surprisingly tough day of classes, fighting a hangover and painful bruises from the tumultuous previous night. The scars left over from the previous night looked kind of badass. The throbbing, painful headache wasn't. Thank god that _atrocity_ disappeared relatively quickly.

Matthew's watch reminded him that it was four forty five. He had been stuck in his own head, overthinking and overanalyzing thoughts that raced through his mind, for a solid twenty minutes or thereabouts. He didn't even notice the herd of students trying to run him over as he walked down the long corridors, peppered with brown doors that opened into a world of education. The earth brown carpets lining the floors, the plain walls painted beige boxing Matthew into his school, and the doors were all color coordinated. The monotony must've helped him stay in his haze longer.

(It didn't help that his last class, a political science one that focused on war and peace or whatever nonsense that he couldn't bring himself to focus on today, ran late. However, that wasn't a huge surprise. Everyone was too spirited for Matthew's liking in that class. Their opinions were loud, aggressive, and a touch ridiculous. The high energy made sense. That was the nature of the students in the political science major: whoever could voice their controversial opinions the loudest often won the highest grades.)

Matthew moseyed down three flights of winding stairs, positioned away to take any student from the wide open lobby to the empty rooms where students were granted the space to work on clubs and whatnot. Alfred got his band chartered as a club. To Matthew's knowledge, it took a lot of charm and sweet talking to get that to work. That was during their spring semester of freshman year, back when Lars was the drummer and not Matthew's weird roommate. A year, a new drummer (the strange and vulgar Gilbert) and an addition of two other bandmates Matthew would meet for the first time today, Alfred's band seemed solid.

The room in which Alfred's band, which he named Buzzing Out of Tune for some godawful reason (it was a bit of a mouthful of a name, but it was cute and memorable, Matthew supposed) was a bit too wide. Matthew gaped at how the rooms were spacious enough to keep all of the instruments and amps and microphones and sheet music stands in place without cramping. The rooms fashioned much like the classrooms on the upper levels. The main difference was the fact that the rooms on the lower levels were a little more prone to crumbling.

"Hey!" Gilbert exclaimed a greeting from behind the drums that seemed to stand as tall as he did. Matthew hovered under the sun bleached door frame, feeling a little tense. He felt like an outcast in this band room. He wasn't a musician, and his only firm connection to the band was through Alfred. Gilbert was a tenuous connection Matthew hoped to strengthen later on, without the intense gaze of Francis Bonnefoy on piano. Matthew wilted under Francis' gaze. Matthew's face turned red at the memory of having a painful, unrequited crush on Francis freshman year that was violently crushed with the knowledge of Francis' volatile relationship with Arthur Kirkland.

Seeing Alfred, with his electric guitar slung over his shoulders, calmed Matthew a little bit.

"Hey," Matthew replied, trying to keep the hesitation in his voice and the anxiety of not feeling as if he fit in under wraps.

"Do you like what you see?" Gilbert smirked, gesturing around the room. It wasn't very personally styled: the walls stayed bare as per the university's policy of not using nails on the walls to keep them from getting holes, and the carpeted floors lost enough of its luster, as if they were only cleaned twice a month.

"There's not much for me to look at yet," Matthew said, tip-toeing into the room as if his tennis shoe wearing feet would break something. He closed the heavy door behind him, grabbing a seat in a lawn chair he brought himself.

"But you will see us in action, and that'll blow your fuckin' mind."

"Is that a promise?" Matthew smirked, raising a sarcastic blond eyebrow as high as he could. Gilbert scoffed, threatening to throw a drumstick at Matthew's face.

"Sure is," Gilbert smiled, looking a little smug.

"When are you starting practice, anyway? I was promised a show, Gilbert."

"Whenever Bonnefoy over here," Gilbert glared at Francis, who met Gilbert's angry glare with an icy look that could probably kill an army, was tuning his piano with obnoxious gusto, "decides his precious piano sounds just right, we'll get started."

"Excuse me, Beilschmidt, for being a stickler for the arts," Francis sneered, tuning his piano even louder than before.

"Guys," Alfred whined, "stop being such assholes to each other-"

"Impossible," both Gilbert and Francis interrupted in unison. They sounded so deadpan in their statement that even Matthew the king of sarcasm couldn't tell if they were being sarcastic or not.

Alfred sighed in annoyance. This must've happened often enough to warrant irritation. Alfred, after all, wasn't the type to become bothered easily by things.

"We've got a practice to complete. Shut up and let's go," Alfred said. Francis and Gilbert got into position.

"One, two, one, two three!" Gilbert said, clapping his drumsticks together to get everyone on the same page about the beat of the song. The first few notes were Francis': the notes sounded slow, and methodical. Matthew swore he heard gloomy yet dreamy undertones. Gilbert played a more upbeat drum beat. His initial entrance was jarring, since he played with a forceful energy that contradicted the methodical sounds of the piano. After a heartbeat of time passed, the piano sped up and matched the frenetic energy of the drums. They created a hopeful sounding melody, still tinged by an undertone of demise. The entrance Alfred's electric guitar sounded like an explosion. The raw, unpolished energy became more apparent with every strummed note. The music was definitely a representation of all three of the band members' personalities.

"We live in a world spinning out of control. Unseen, unheard! Only through your narrow lens and the change of scenery made any difference of your interpretation on how the world's gonna stop spinning. Until the end, until the sun stops setting, until the moon stops rising, then we'll know that the world's collided into the end," Alfred sung the lyrics as if his life depended on it. The music tapered off at an awkward place. When the room got silent, Francis, Alfred, and Gilbert all locked eyes on Matthew. Matthew's ears rang. He remained silent for a long time.

"...Was that all?" Matthew asked.

"You heard us end the song," GIlbert offered weakly.

"It seemed unfinished," Matthew responded.

"Well yeah, _duh_ , it's seems unfinished. It _is_ an unfinished piece," Alfred blustered.

"We still hope you liked it or whatever," Gilbert added. Francis remained in his own world, uninterested in Matthew or anyone and anything else.

"I did like it," Matthew started, enunciating his words carefully. A part of Matthew wanted to freak out being under such scrutiny as the sudden center of attention. Another part of him, though, enjoyed the influence he had: his word actually meant something! Alfred and Gilbert sighed in relief at Matthew's words. Francis seemed smug, as if he already knew Matthew would like their music.

"But!" Matthew added. Gilbert and Alfred seemed to deflate. "I like your sound. it's unique: raw, and frenetic yet somber. The song, though, ended in a weird place. It sounds like you've got more about to happen, but you stopped right as it got interesting." Matthew made sure to pause to let them process his words. There was no sarcastic banter, as he imagined. Maybe they were serious about this whole band thing. "My biggest complaint is that the lyrics are super nonsensical. At least, I think so." Gilbert glared at Francis.

"I _knew_ I shouldn't have trusted you with the lyrics!" Gilbert screeched.

"Better than the drivel your poorly dyed head could've written," Francis retorted with such a biting tone that Gilbert rubbed his head in shame. His mousy roots were showing underneath the silvery dye.

" _I_ like your hair, Gilbert," Matthew added meekly. Gilbert's slouched frame straightened with pride.

"Let's run through the song fully, without the lyrics," Alfred commended with a lazy drawl. They played the whole song all the way through. The song played through in seven minutes, including the false starts where Gilbert forgot his drums didn't start the song. Matthew made an effort to cheer with extra enthusiasm at the end.

"What'd you think this time?" Gilbert asked.

"A whole lot better!" Matthew beamed. Alfred shooed Gilbert away to talk with Francis. Matthew didn't question why Gilbert came over to sit with him.

"I'm glad you made it," Gilbert said.

"Thanks for inviting me." Silence befell them.

"Can I show you the lyrics I wrote?" Gilbert said, hopeful. Matthew couldn't say no to his childlike enthusiasm.

"Sure. Since Alfred and Francis are probably gonna talk for a while, let's sneak out to get dinner at the cafeteria. Then you can show me, okay? Gilbert sprung out of his seat, and sprinted out of the room with newfound energy. Matthew made the right decision in coming to practice today.


	4. Chapter 4

The door didn't close behind Matthew and Gilbert. It wasn't like Gilbert was doing anything productive during practice, anyway. Alfred had shooed Gilbert away. That was an action Matthew understood as Gilbert not needing to be around for the rest of practice. Therefore, he came to the conclusion that Gilbert was allowed to spend his free time as he chose without consequence.

"What's on the agenda now?" Gilbert asked as he and Matthew walked away from the band practice room. A few feet away from the band room was a barren plaza, which was almost always lacking in people sitting in the meager (and frankly uncomfortable) metal green chairs haphazardly placed around the thin tables. The plaza was meant to encourage socializing ou, but in reality, it was used for stressed out students to relieve their tension by having very loud mental meltdowns.

(It was also used for students in particular to tick off public sex off of their bucket list: since there was so much wide open space, and plenty of chronically empty classrooms, students were able to have wild and ridiculous semi-public space. As a snarky introvert, he could never imagine doing something that he thought was meant for privacy in such a public space.)

The horrifying mental image aside, Matthew enjoyed this plaza, and how it overlooked stairs that led to a sculpture garden created by alumni from years past. The beauty of the pieces were accentuated by the wonderfully cultivated grass, and the surprising phenomenal variety of various plants that had a huge range of vivid, breath taking color. Matthew found that the art pieces themselves were surreal, abstract, and utterly meaningless to someone who wasn't predisposed to thinking in an artistic way. As much as Matthew was a music geek, and a self-declared connoisseur of music, he was cursed to extreme, painful tone-deafness. That directly contradicted with his love of music. As long as Matthew could convince the intense, musically talented Gilbert to believe that Matthew was more musically inclined beyond a casual enjoyment of music, Matthew was fine.

Matthew was stuck in his reverie for long enough to remember that Gilbert stared at him with those intense blue eyes, waiting for an answer.

"There is no agenda," Matthew said, with a laid back shrug.

"That's...so weird."

"Why's that? You seem pretty care free to me. I can't believe you're not the type to love unstructured downtime."

Gilbert had a look in his eyes that Matthew couldn't interpret properly. Something like a cringe, but laced with anxiety instead of disgust.

"I like having a schedule, that's all. No biggie, dude." Gilbert sounded a little too aggressive in his reassurance, but Matthew didn't find a reason to exert the energy to bother about his tone.

"If you insist…" Matthew said. A heartbeat's length of silence fell between them, which turned into a longer time of silence as Matthew pulled out some homework he needed to finish. He focused so intensely that he forgot the world for a moment.

"I can't believe you can do homework with your hair in your eyes," Gilbert laughed to himself, as if he wasn't talking to anyone.

"...You talking to me?" Matthew asked.

"Yeah, duh! Who else has long hair at this table?" Gilbert ran boastful fingers through his short dyed silver hair. He seemed to take pride in the fact that his hair looked blonder in the sunlight with the roots growing out. It was longer in the front to make sure he could at least stylize it soFor a brief moment, Matthew felt insecure about his thick wavy blond locks. He intentionally kept his hair a little longer than his chin to challenge the fact that guys were allegedly supposed to have their hair short. He tied his

"Is it a good thing? You know, you mentioning my hair length." Matthew clarified, hoping to get some solid answers. Gilbert shrugged, scoffing at Matthew's question as if he had asked the stupidest question known to the universe.

"Sure. Why else would I mention it? Wouldn't want to waste my breath on useless chatter," Gilbert said. He kept his eyes focused on a sketchbook full of what looked like hasty portraits of people, where pencil lines were uncontrolled and people looked more like fantastical, supernatural beings instead of human. There were some pictures of breathtaking scenery that would've looked at home in a science fiction movie. Matthew couldn't help but be curious. He tried to lean over and take a peak.

"What're you drawing?" Matthew asked.

"Nothing," Gilbert responded too quickly, closing his lovingly battered notebook with a thud. They made meaningful eye contact for a few moments. Matthew never realized until now that he hadn't got a good look at Gilbert's face. It was still cut up, but the once deep scars closed up well enough to look like he had reasonably fallen down. Colorful bruises bloomed around his chest, neck, and arms. Gilbert showed off these bruises with pride in a dark v-neck t-shirt that accentuated his pain. He probably thought he earned this.

"Your scars are healing surprisingly fast," Matthew blurted, unsure as to why he mentioned the battle scars that Gilbert faced in that unknown fight the other day.

"I'm glad you noticed," Gilbert said, puffing his chest up in arrogance. Matthew smiled: Gilbert always seemed to brighten with compliments. Before anyone could continue the conversation, a shrill shriek pierced the air. Matthew and Gilbert were struck with panic.

"The scream is coming from the gazebos in the sculpture garden!" Gilbert said, and he sprung into action. Matthew followed him to make sure he didn't get himself into a stupid, violent situation. They left their stuff behind. They ran to the source of the screams, the euphoria from anxiety and the unknown fueling their running. Matthew wheezed as he kept behind Gilbert, noting that he'd have to exercise more to get in better shape. Gilbert was coordinated, never once tripping over the stairs in their speed.

There was a baby-faced brunette being punched, kicked, and scratched by the same thugs who hurt Gilbert. The attackers wore similar style clothing from the night Gilbert was hurt, which was weird to the observant Matthew. He figured they wouldn't want to get caught, and that they'd make themselves look different to not get guy being attacked was bleeding pretty profusely on the ground, unable to get up from his spot for fear of more pain. His incoherent, loud sobs would've grabbed attention if it weren't for the fact that they were in a semi-remote area. Whatever information was needed from the baby-faced brunette wouldn't come out, due to the incoherence.

Gilbert, despite being slight but somewhat wiry in build and of average height, could hold his own in a fight. Frenzied adrenaline must've helped when he jumped into the fight. Matthew remained frozen in his tracks. Matthew's brain must've shut off in fear. Without warning, as Gilbert fought off the thugs, Matthew jumped in to save the brunette, leading him away from the scene of the crime.

"Don't say anything, just let me take you to the nurse's office," Matthew said to the crying brunette who wore an all-khaki ensemble soaked with blood, and whose boots were scuffed beyond recognition. Matthew let the brunette use him as a crutch. They hobbled to the nurse. This was an effort that seemed to overwhelm both of them, even though the walk from the sculpture garden to the nurse's office was only a mere five hundred or so feet away.

Matthew hated how the nurse's office required walking through a menacing, blindingly beige hallway and a carpet that looked like it was meticulously cleaned to the point of uselessness but not replaced since the mid-eighties. It housed offices designated for registering for classes, various tenured professors, admissions, and other official places. Matthew felt like dozens of eyes were suddenly glaring at him, passing intense judgment.

The nurse's office was hidden at the end of the hall, the heavy brown door and windows covered by blinds to indicate a sense of privacy. Matthew knocked, just to be polite. The door was ajar, so Matthew let himself in; the nurse was actually a thin, austere but efficient and kind Chinese man Matthew knew as Wang Yao.

"I'm Romano Vargas, and I'm in trouble," the brunette Matthew knew as Romano wheezed, collapsing on the couch decorated with thick red quilts to make the otherwise sterile, lemon-scented office look inviting instead of cold and bleak, like most offices. Yao dismissed Matthew out of the office with what looked like a nod of approval. Matthew inhaled and exhaled deeply. He was still shaking. Adrenaline exiting his body had left him drained. Gilbert appeared through the double doors that posed as an entrance to the office building where they both stood. Gilbert, despite having more cuts, scratches, and bruises, gleamed bright in his triumphant victory against the attackers.

"Damn it, Gilbert!" Matthew screeched as he led Gilbert outside.

"What? What'd I do?" Gilbert asked, the fiery, frantic gleam in eyes disappearing.

"You have some explaining to do," Matthew said, trying to keep the fierce, angry edge out of his voice.

"That kid-"

"His name's Romano! I had to take him to the nurse's office," Matthew interrupted.

"Romano was being attacked by the same assholes who hurt me. Saving him was the least I could do."

"I saw that. But what I want to know is what you're doing with your life that you're being attacked, and you're leading others to be hurt in the same violent way as you." Gilbert shushed Matthew, which made him a little irate.

"That's a story for another day. For now, let's clean our wounds and finish our homework." Matthew wanted to interrogate Gilbert, for this situation created more questions than it did answers. But it would be illogical to launch an interrogation now, especially when Gilbert had barely healed from his last bout of fighting. More wounds had opened, and they needed to be taken care of.

By the time Matthew and Gilbert reached the table with all of their stuff strewn unceremoniously across the tables, Francis and Alfred had made themselves comfortable on the table.

"Dude, where'd you guys go?" ALfred asked, his voice so incredulous and upset that Matthew didn't recognize it.

"More importantly," Francis asked in a too calm, too smooth voice, "what happened to your guys' faces?" Matthew touched Gilbert's cheekbone: blood dripped.

"Let me clean you up, Gilbert," Matthew said sharply to Gilbert, who merely looked sheepish. Matthew turned to Francis and Alfred.

"If you don't mind, I'll need to clean Gilbert first before you two interrogate him. He has some explaining to do."


	5. Chapter 5

Gilbert cringed in pain every time any time Matthew pressed antiseptic on the cuts that ailed him. It took a few minutes to get Gilbert to sit still enough to even get him to cooperate. He fidgeted and squirmed under Matthew's gentle touch.

A part of Matthew, the part distracted by the ability to touch Gilbert's face without question, wanted to see what Gilbert looked like with a clean, healed face. For as long as the two knew each other, both of their faces were adorned with cuts, bruises, and scrapes. Generally, Gilbert's angular features showed up underneath the pain. That didn't stop Matthew from wanting to see more.

Matthew broke his own reverie by remembering why he was cleaning Gilbert's face. There was an explanation for the recent violent shenanigans Gilbert got himself in to, and Matthew couldn't be kept in the dark any long. Francis and Alfred both glared at Gilbert with such intense withering stares that Gilbert flinched. That was motivation enough for the drummer to spill his guts.

Gilbert looked over his shoulders once, twice, thrice, even four times, to make sure nobody was around in the plaza to overhear what he had to say. Matthew sat at the edge of his seat. A part of him was sure Gilbert was being melodramatic to add suspense. However, Matthew kept his doubtful sarcastic remarks to himself. After all, patiently listening to Gilbert to ultimately help him out was the polite thing to do. Plus Matthew was the one who forced this explanation to happen; he couldn't undermine his own authority after having his protective side popping up.

Gilbert took a deep breath before talking. "The people who hurt me are the Soviets. They're a group of Eastern European friends who use the guise of a club to raise money for sinister personal reasons. Before you ask what those reasons are, I can't tell you. I don't know," Gilbert explained with his voice cracking as he wrung his hands. Matthew noticed that Gilbert failed at hiding his apprehension and fear of what exactly this backstory entailed. Alfred scoffed at the name, and it seemed like Francis was confused.

"How do you recognize the Soviets?" Francis asked Alfred, enunciating his words with what sounded like disdain in every highly enunciated syllable. Alfred pounded his fist on the chair. The table shuddered under the weight of his anger.

"How do you _not_ recognize the Soviets? They're run by Ivan Braginsky, the most manipulate asshole of all the manipulative assholes on campus," Alfred's sneer was so intense, that his face looked like it would break from the overwhelming emotion.

"...He can't be all that bad. Can he?" Matthew asked in a soft voice. This wasn't the right time to be reassuring of the fact that everything would eventually sort itself out. The regret of letting those words come out of his mouth hit him immediately.

"Come on, Matt! Now's not the time to be a pushover," Alfred exclaimed.

"We need to find a way to make sure I give back what I owe without getting into another fight," Gilbert said. This was the cue to huddle together, plan, and have a happy ending possibly occur.

Matthew felt optimistic, despite the anger of Gilbert getting into this situation in the first place. "Why can't you just give him the money you owe him? You'd repay your debts and everything would be over," Matthew suggested.

"That suggestions, although logically sound-" Francis started.

"To a certain, unrealistically positive extent," Alfred interrupted. Francis rolled his eyes, exaggerating every facial movement to prove the point of hating interruptions. Alfred's outbursts were normal, even expected, behavior. Alfred's zeal was difficult to contain. Matthew remembered this energy even when they were kids. Francis was immediately dismissed with a handwave from Alfred.

"Alfred's right. This situation won't end because you did the bare minimum of work in a nice way," Francis said. Matthew couldn't help but agree.

"But we'll keep that in mind," Gilbert added hastily. Francis and Alfred agreed with slow nods of their heads. Matthew figured Francis, Alfred, and Gilbert said they would keep Matthew's ideas in the back of their minds to humor him.

All of Alfred's plans were ridiculous in their over the top nature. That was to be expected, like his ridiculous outbursts. Somehow, they almost always ended up with Alfred and Ivan in a Wild West standoff at high noon in the middle of the sculpture garden. Despite some good ideas at the outset, any positive aspects were rendered useless by how increasingly unrealistic the ideas became.

Silence befell the four college students. Matthew accepted it with open arms, as his head hurt and his heart raced at all of the information that came his way. There was too much to process. However, the cogs in his mind still turned. He wanted to solve this in the simplest way possible.

"I have a potential answer to all of this," Matthew said with a deliberate intonation. Alfred, Francis, and Gilbert urged him on with in unison hand gestures. "What about, and you're totally allowed to say now, laying low. While laying low, we could raise the money by getting gigs and then challenging the Soviets to change their ways if they don't accept the money? An added bonus would be raising enough money to help people unrelated to Gilbert who were affected by the Soviets, like Romano." More silence, no doubt to process the suggestion. Matthew figured it was brilliant enough to enact.

"That's perfect," Gilbert said. Francis and Alfred agreed shortly after.

"I can't wait to lay low, to be honest," Alfred said, "today was too stressful."

"You're telling me! I've got the scars to prove it," Gilbert scoffed in response. Matthew was skeptical of pitching this idea and even more wary of whether or not it would be accepted. It was refreshing to feel like a part of a group, even if that group was his half-brother's eccentric band members.

* * *

The days moved by in a strange but comfortable rhythm after deciding to lay low. Matthew focused on his classes. Matthew's essays were exquisitely written, according to his professors. Students finally took notice of him, and Matthew's circle of friends increased. Matthew appreciated the newfound attention, even if it was baffling more often than not. He wasn't used to people not mistaking him for Alfred, much less noticing him for who he was as a person. He even participated in clubs more. Clubs weren't even interesting to him, because it seemed like a popularity contest and a way to party with school funding.

With his newfound focus on other aspects of school, Matthew hadn't seen much of Gilbert, Francis or Alfred. He wasn't sure what to make of their disappearances, to be frank. He tried not to think of it too much though. Matthew couldn't help but miss Gilbert the most. His obnoxious laugh and his ridiculous jokes and his easy, charming exuberance was an energy that was impossible to replicate.

In short: everything seemed to be going well, aside from missing Gilbert. One could say things were going almost too well. What Matthew didn't know was that everything would change all too fast.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: A new job, family issues, and FFN being down delayed me from updating. Thanks for your continued support!**

* * *

Now that Matthew was a productive member of his college community, he felt more consistently calm. Somehow, letting himself participate in his college with a positive mindset was an ideology that let him evolve as a human being. The clubs he joined as a member were numerous and active. His favorites were the hiking club, led by an affable Cuban dude named Carlos. He always wore tacky, brightly colored floral tee shirts, which Matthew appreciated. They became fast friends, as Matthew was one of the few members that not only consistently went on the hikes and took them seriously, he kept up with Carlos' steady but meandering pace. Carlos' quiet acceptance into the hiking club was the closest thing Matthew would have to a best friend at the moment.

Socializing rarely came easily to Matthew. Carlos' friendship meant that much more to Matthew. The other clubs he was a part of were ones to fill up his time, to break up the monotony of school work that sapped his emotional energy. Sure, he had a great time half paying attention to the B list comedy movies that the Movie Club put on, too distracted by snacks, making hilarious talking with acquaintances and making fun of couples who only came to have an uninterrupted hour and forty five minutes of time to make out. He had to admit that the Maple Syrup Club, which was a club that met twice a month to taste test fancy maple syrup off campu, was everything he dreamed of doing in life and more. He really, genuinely liked the vice president Toris Laurinaitis, a soft spoken and often sarcastic student studying abroad from Lithuania. Aside from Carlos, Toris was Matthew's closest friend.

However, despite the happiness of these two main clubs plus the odd jobs he did while participating in a smattering of other clubs, Matthew felt a hole in his heart where his friends should've been. He hadn't let himself see Gilbert or Francis or even Alfred. They felt like a distant part of his past, even if they were recent additions to his life. Matthew only stopped consistently seeing them two and a half months ago, which was a long time in college time but not so long in the grand scheme of things. Matthew couldn't shake off the feeling of missing the trio of quirky weirdos.

In his life as a productive and successfully happy member of his college community, he had focused on the low murmur of students' voices whilst walking through the winding halls of campus, with haphazard but brightly colored posters; The sounds of voices were like music to Matthew. After all, he wasn't much of a social being. Pretending that listening to everyone around campus but Matthew were happy made him happy.

Matthew realized that if random background noise was like music to his ears, the lyrics to the vocalized music of life must have been fueled by a perpetual cycle of petty gossip and judgment of the unfair amount of classwork, optimistic wonder for the yet unknown future and anxiety inducing, crushing worry for deadlines, looming over students like a dark raincloud threatening a storm. With these everyday noises, intermingling with the sounds of shuffling feet and rummaging in backpacks, delirious with need to find the right books for the next class and frantic shouts to finish work that suffered to do long term procrastination. Matthew hadn't heard the sounds of people directing their energy toward him. That thought would've been more depressing had it not held some grains of truth.

Despite the positive outlook and the general growth of being a happy go lucky student minding his own business, Matthew couldn't help but notice that he lost himself in spending much of his time focusing on remaining a productive member of his college community. The days of spending hours upon hours alone, barely socializing, was too sad for words.

After a long day of work and play, all of which seemed to blur together He jumped out of his seat in surprise when he heard a loud, persistent knock at his dorm room door. It was six thirty on a Friday night. The night was still young, and there was so much to do, to see, to accomplish. After all, classes were done for the day. Any self respecting student treated the weekend as a way to divorce themselves from the pressure of everyday schoolwork.

Matthew, introvert extraordinaire and disintered partier who didn't curse much let alone find going wild anything interesting, let loose in the best way he knew how: complete and utter silence as he drank shitty mixed alcohol. He was tipsy, borderline drunk, and just uninhibited enough to act like a fool without overthinking and overanalyzing his actions. Thankfully, he wasn't impaired enough to act egregiously out of character. All he felt was a little calmer, less wound up; he knew he wouldn't do anything too stupid in this mindset.

Matthew gasped when he opened the door. Gilbert had been at the front door, his lithe body leaning against the dark blue door frame with his arms lazily shoved in his pants pockets. He wore his signature outfit: black vintage shirt with an obscure 60s punk rock band logo emblazoned on the front, straight cut black grey-blue jeans, and black Doc Martens with silver laces to match his newly silver dyed hair. A new emotion flickered across Gilbert's aloof face: worry. Matthew wanted to wipe it off of his face by any means necessary.

"Hey," Matthew said, entirely too cautious. Gilbert nodded at Matthew's greeting, most likely to indicate he heard the question. Gilbert let himself into Matthew's room, and closed the door behind him with graceful deliberation. He sauntered around the dorm, meticulous in its cleanliness and calculated in its decoration, looking for a place to sit. Matthew watched Gilbert pace around the room like a cat. Each step he took was delicate despite his clunky shoes, and he moved with a sashay in his hips that Matthew dimly decided in his tipsy state was kind of hot.

"What brings you here on this fine Friday night? Shouldn't you be out partying or whatever?" Matthew asked, not caring that his words slurred in this question. Gilbert either didn't notice or didn't care that Matthew slurred his words.

"I've got news," Gilbert said.

"Why do you seem so distraught?" Matthew asked, genuine concern lacing his voice. A flicker of relaxation crossed across Gilbert's tense face.

"Because I found the solution to get the money I owe to The Soviets." Matthew wanted to ask why Gilbert looked so thoroughly defeated at something as great as that statement.

"That's amazing! Shouldn't that be a cause for celebration?" Matthew's face lit up. If Gilbert was free from the clutches of The Soviets, then he'd be freer to hang out with Matthew consistently again.

"It should be amazing, if there wasn't a catch," Gilbert let out a sigh, one that Matthew thought was a little melodramatic. But it was a gesture that must've come from some kind of pain. Gilbert may have been a dramatic person, but all of those strong feelings came from somewhere.

"I'm not understanding. I think you need to back up and explain everything to me in excruciating detail." Matthew secretly just wanted to hear Gilbert talk, but he was also worried for his friend.

"So…the reason why The Soviets and I fought so much was because I used to live with the head of The Soviets, Ivan Braginsky. It was only for half a year, maybe nine months tops," Matthew wanted to react in some dramatic way, like they did in soap operas, but he couldn't find the proper reaction. All that buzzed through his mind were endless questions.

Gilbert continued with: "My parents were getting divorced, and it was hella volatile, which was stressful as hell. My brother, Ludwig, whose two years younger, took the divorce with much more maturity than I did. He was thirteen, almost fourteen. I was about fifteen, probably closer to sixteen. Ivan and I were frenemies in high school, and we had this weird love-hate thing going on. Ultimately, Ivan opened his home to me. When I left his house, I flourished emotionally without his help." Gilbert didn't make eye contact with Matthew throughout the entire story. It was a highly emotional one, so that made sense to Matthew. Matthew wanted more details, but he supposed what he got was enough to keep him in the know.

"...So how does that relate to why he hates you so much now?" Matthew, at this point, was at the edge of his bed, leaning forward so intensely that he worried he would fall over.

"Ivan and I've been feuding because of my success after moving out. Everytime I do something good, Ivan has to bring me down." Gilbert kept his gaze intense and away from Matthew, as if embarrassed.

"That's a little...petty."

"You're telling me."

Matthew's curiosity got the better of him, and let words tumble out of his mouth without thinking: "So what's the way you're going to pay back The Soviets?"

"It's super embarrassing…" Matthew laughed, dismissing Gilbert's worry altogether.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me!" Matthew exclaimed with a laugh.

His GPS directed him to the International City Fair, held every year at the park fifteen miles away from campus. The Fair was a weekend long event for people to come together and enjoy themselves, while also letting small businesses advertise themselves in often poorly designed but well intentioned booths.

it was the tackiest, gaudiest, and most ridiculous event ever put together, because it was always brightly colored and flashy despite being a run down fair. The city Matthew's college campus resided in started putting it on about thirty years ago, and it was just successful enough to justify putting it on annually. Rides, mostly small to medium sized roller coasters that people who actually enjoyed roller coasters rode ironically, games that were almost one hundred percent rigged for the player to lose, and greasy, deep fried foods that were too disgusting and expensive to eat on a regular basis.

Popular music Matthew recognized from listening to the radio for hours on end played in the distance. It had a more unique flair that could only be attributed to Gilbert's band.

"I can't believe you were convinced to do this!" Matthew giggled when the band took a break. They were backstage, which was a one hundred square foot rectangle of grass literally behind the stage.

"It was super easy to convince me, that's for sure," Alfred exclaimed, whose eyes sparkled a giddy blue; he lived for tackiness and childishness like this fair. Francis shook with disdain, drumming idly to distract himself. Matthew figured the sneer on Francis's face wouldn't go away anytime soon.

"Shut up, Alfred. I was the one who had to be embarrassed, not you," Gilbert hissed. He then turned to Matthew to say, "I hope you don't think of me any differently, Matt."

"Not at all!" Matthew said, and kissed Gilbert's cheek. He turned redder in the face than Matthew ever would've expected.

"I'll stop distracting you guys for now. I'll be back at your next break."

Matthew walked toward the fair, and snickered at the squabbling band. He hoped that he'd see them again more consistently now that there was a reason for Gilbert and the band to saunter back into his life.


	7. Chapter 7

Matthew had spent an ungodly amount of money on the ticket for entry into this fair, so he figured that he might as well play some fun fair games. As all fairs go, Matthew suspected that everything offered, from the games to the rides to the food, would be cheesy and ridiculous. A small part of him hoped to be proven wrong, but the more logical part of him knew he definitely wouldn't be proven wrong. Fairs were all the same anyway, according to Matthew's life experience in suburbia.

There were booths, set up with blindingly colorful tarp, with vendors sticking out of them selling useless (not to mention overpriced) knick knacks. Thankfully, he only brought enough cash for the ticket, and not much else. A college student's budget was laughable.

Matthew could smell the gross scents of fair food a mile away. Suddenly, his stomach churned at the thought of eating anything today. The food was always greasy, deep fried, salty, sugary, an ungodly combination of foods that should never be together. Or worse: the food was a combination of all those options. The scent wafting in his nose made him want to barf.

The games were addicting and rigged so everyone would lose but would want to spend their money down to their last coin and bill in order for the chance to win something. Repetitive yet somehow melodic music played in the background. The band was playing some insipid, vapid cover of a terrible country song to give the fair a distinct midwestern-United States feel. Matthew wasn't sure why this theme was all that necessary: this fair always was near the university that Matthew attended, which was known for housing many international students.

Alfred must've enjoyed the attention of being the lead singer, and everyone lavishing attention on him. Being the center of attention was Alfred's favorite activity in life, whether or not he wanted to admit it. Gilbert must've been hyped on Alfred's childish zeal, and therefore been energetic as well. He must've been humiliated for not being taken seriously though. Francis must've cringed through

As Matthew sauntered in the general direction of the fair, which was about eight hundred feet from the tiny and rickety stage facing a square of cheap plastic white lawn chairs where the band played, a part of Matthew couldn't turn his mind off from Gilbert. These thoughts were strange. They also seemed to never end. Gilbert and Matthew had only been close for a short time, which was about a semester. And for too long (two months could be too long, Matthew rationalized), they barely talked.

So why did Matthew's heart flutter at the thought of Gilbert? Despite not being Mathew's type, he could admit there was something attractive about Gilbert. The punk rock style suited the drummer: the fitted jeans, the clunky spiked and studded boots, the vintage tee-shirts of obscure sayings and bands, and the dyed hair that contrasted with his fair skin. Even his strange eye, angular facial features, and wiry frame made him more appealing. Matthew was taller than Gilbert, but that couldn't be helped. For what Gilbert lacked in height, he made up for in energy and enthusiasm.

Logic couldn't help Matthew now if he was thinking like this, where he only saw the drummer in idealized positives. A crush may have been brewing at this moment. Matthew needed to take his mind off Gilbert, and fast.

 _Time for some carnival games!_

He raced to the nearest game, which just so happened to be one involving darts and throwing them at balloons. If he popped enough balloons, he'd get some prize that someone picked up from the dirtiest clearance bin. Thankfully, Alfred wasn't around. He couldn't and shouldn't be trusted around sharp objects or games with a competitive objective.

Matthew was mesmerised with the game, to the point that he forgot that the world wasn't just his own hyper-focused world. Without warning, an icy hand sat on his shoulder. Suddenly, Matthew wanted a scarf, and was suddenly saddled with a strange desire to chug vodka.

Matthew set his darts down, then pivoted on his heel to see a tall man with ash blonde hair, a piercing stare, and a trench coat that seemed out of place in the heat of the fair.

"Do I know you?" Matthew asked. The man kept his hand tightly on Matthew's shoulder.

"You are Matthew Williams." Matthew shivered at the way the other guy forced the words out in a strange, stilted monotone.

"...That's me. Now what do you want?" Matthew responded, brows furrowed and body tense. The trench coat wearing stranger glared, his entire sharp face threatening to cut Matthew into a million pieces. Matthew wasn't drunk or courageous enough to deal with this.

"An update on Gilbert." Matthew sputtered. What was he supposed to say?

"He's...himself. Alive, kicking, playing music, going to school." That wasn't much of a response, but Matthew wasn't sure what to say. He had no idea who this stranger was, and he didn't want to risk Gilbert's reputation to save Matthew's own neck. The music of Gilbert's band still played in the background, all melodic and echoey. The stranger's grip tightened on Matthew's shoulder, and he feared an unsightly bruise would appear sooner rather than later.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" The response sent shivers down Matthew's spine.

"I can show you," the words tumbled out of Matthew's lips before he could properly think. His brain was mush at this point: he was terrible at thinking under pressure. Plus, he didn't want to be shot as the messenger; Gilbert could take care of this jerk on his own, especially in broad daylight where even the laxest of security would deter a fight from breaking out.

The stranger pushed Matthew to the stage, adding a second too strong grip on Matthew's other shoulder ( _great,_ thought Matthew bitterly, _more bruises!_ ; he cursed his pale, easily battered skin). Matthew didn't resist. The pain on his face must've been recognizable from any distance, because Gilbert dropped his drumsticks to run at full speed to Matthew.

"Ivan Braginsky, you animal! What are you doing here?" Gilbert poised his hand into a fist, aiming it at Ivan's prominently sloping nose. Ivan dropped his grip from Matthew's now sore shoulders, and caught Gilbert's

"Isn't it humiliating enough that I control your emotions so deeply? I made you react by my very existence near this quiet fool!" Ivan cackled. The delivery of those two sentences made Matthew cringe deeply. But a part of him, the cheesy romantic, liked how quickly Gilbert reacted.

What was becoming of Matthew's life?

"I have no clue what's going on, and I don't think I care to know," Matthew said.

"Ivan thinks this poor attempt at humiliation is revenge," Gilbert said, all too seriously. Matthew swore he heard Ivan growl.

"What I don't understand, Ivan, is why you'd get Gilbert a gig at a widely populated fair where the managers love him and the audience can't stop listening to his music. It's like you want him to be famous despite hating him for being more successful," Matthew reasoned. He wasn't sure why Ivan thought the fair was humiliating. Ivan deflated.

"You're right," Ivan said, dumbfounded. Gilbert dropped his fist. The air became less tense. (It wasn't particularly tense in the first place, Matthew realized.)

"I..can't believe all of those physical attacks on Gilbert culminated to _this_. How anti-climatic," Matthew mused to no one in particular.

"So you're saying I should take revenge in a more creative way?" Ivan said.

"No. I'm telling you that you should just fuck off," Matthew spat. Ivan glared, and stalked off.

"...That was too easy." Gilbert said, facing Matthew.

"What should we do until he inevitably tries to strike back?" Matthew asked.

"Well, my gig finishes in two hours. We can catch dinner or something."

"That sounds great."

 _At least something good came out of today..._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: My life has been a rollercoaster lately. I participated in NaNoWriMo in November which was a plus, but my grandfather unfortunately passed away two and a half weeks ago, which was emotionally devastating. Thanks for the support! Happy holidays, by the way.**

* * *

Matthew's heart fluttered at the idea of dinner with Gilbert, and it seemed like a sentimental, melodramatic reaction to a casual request. It must've made him look like a spazz, but Gilbert made no notice of the reaction. Matthew was grateful for the casual nonchalance of the question, because Matthew's heart went into overdrive with excitement, fluttering all over the place like a cliche in love. It was embarrassing if he didn't think, deep down, Gilbert probably found it endearing; underneath Gilbert's hot headed, devil may care attitude was a sappy schmuck who lived for this romantic bullshit. The fact that their friendship moved at an unpredictable pace kept Matthew delightfully on his toes, which was a welcome pick me up from the monotony of school.

Most importantly, going on this date with Gilbert marked a social milestone for Matthew. This was his first casual romantic date since Francis all that time ago, and Francis wasn't what you'd call a casual fellow. In fact, Francis was a whirlwind of emotion and energy, which was overwhelming to Matthew who needed more time to process everything. Just as fast as the torrid love affair started with Francis and Matthew, it had fizzled out in that same speed. Matthew was left so speechless that he didn't go on a date again.

If Matthew was going to zone out at a fair, where people started scattering due to exhaustion, he was going to think about Gilbert, who was the main reason Matthew was here anyway. Gilbert's frenetic energy was almost childlike, coming and going in such manic bursts that Matthew wasn't sure how Gilbert functioned during the day. Matthew noticed, ever the keen observer, that Gilbert was a lot rougher around the edges than he let on, but that didn't stop him from living an authentic life true to his own heart. It wasn't like that was a bad trait to possess or anything: in fact, it was something Matthew came to embrace.

The sun began to set, and that meant the fair was likely due to close within the next hour or two, which explain the lack of people; he wasn't sure why the fair closed so early, as it was a Friday night and what else was there to do on a Friday night than go to a silly fair. Matthew wondered how the band, Buzzing Out of Tune, got away with playing all day on a Friday, then he remembered that the entire band was composed of the three most charming sweet talkers Matthew had ever met. With their combined charismatic, sophisticated yet accessible and friendly wit, they could probably take over the world.

Cold hands touched Matthew's bare shoulders, and he jumped as if he saw a ghost.

"The hell is wrong with you, dude?" Gilbert said with a laugh. Matthew took a deep breath, and laughed along.

"Your hands are cold," Matthew said.

"Well...there's a funny story to that," Gilbert said in a sheepish tone that probably meant something bad had happened.

"Do I want to hear this crap you got yourself into?" Matthew asked with a defeated sigh.

"Actually, I think you do! It regards you, anyway," Gilbert said, his nonchalant tone worrisome instead of reassuring.

"Holy shit, you got in a fight for me! Why would you do that, you moron?" Matthew exclaimed, and this was the first time he ever saw the bottle silver haired guy blush in the time Matthew knew him.

"Well, Ivan was talking shit about you and I couldn't let him do that, so I punched him and gave him a black eye." The pride in Gilbert's voice would've been sweet had he not been talking about something so brutal and immature. Matthew grimaced because he thought mindless violence, even in the name of (albeit likely misguided) justified aggression, could never be condoned. A part of Matthew wanted more of Gilbert's affection, but he banished the thought before a blush could creep up on his face.

"That's...sweet? But completely unnecessary. It's not like I would've heard about it had you not told me."

"But Ivan's a smarmy ass. He's got what was coming to him," Gilbert whined, stomping his foot for good measure to add emphasis. Matthew sighed.

"I'm sure he did, but physical violence won't make him back off," Gilbert rolled his eyes at Matthew's nagging lecturing, which was something that Alfred did as a child when they lived together in their youth, "plus, what if he decides to take even more revenge? That would suck pretty royally for you." Gilbert shrugged at the notion.

The words probably went in one ear and out the other, so Matthew probably should make the best decision to shut his mouth while he was ahead in the game of bickering with Gilbert, who won this argument by sheer force of will. Tenacity was one of his strong suits, and Matthew would've found that more attractive if it manifest itself in such a deeply annoying way.

"I can handle myself. Plus I've got you by my side, and that's all I really need at the moment." Without a moment's notice, Gilbert stood on his tip-toes and kissed Matthew with such a great force that he almost fell backwards. His lips were chapped, likely from standing outside during a long and windy day, but he wasn't a bad kisser; he clearly knew what he was doing, as if he had a lot of practice (which wouldn't surprise Matthew). The passion between them acted as a spark that fueled their kissing, fervent and explosive as time went on. Gilbert was a few inches shorter than Matthew, so the logistics of kissing never particularly crossed Matthew's mind until now. Gilbert's cold hands cupped Matthew's face, and that's when they broke apart.

"Dude, your hands are freezing. You can't go touching me all romantic-like with ice cold hands," Matthew sputtered out, and that was all the coherence he could manage. He wasn't used to be so foggy headed after something as simple as a kiss, but it must've been one hell of a kiss if it left him this emotional. Gilbert grabbed Matthew's hands as they were surrounded by inky indigo darkness, the first stars shining.

"You're gonna warm them up for me as we leave, okay?" Gilbert said. Matthew smiled back.

"You think you're slick," Matthew said with a grin.

"That's because I am, and you know it," Gilbert said as he pecked Matthew on his cheekbone, causing a deep red blush to spread across his face.

"Move faster, you freaks! It's getting cold," Alfred screamed from across the fairgrounds, his voice booming loud enough that any intimate moments Gilbert and Matthew could've had were shattered.

* * *

Traffic back to the dorms wasn't that bad, and Matthew didn't even mind squeezing in the back seat of Alfred's creepy white van. Matthew took the bus to the fair, and thus had an unreliable way back; it was Gilbert who insisted (rather, whined in a rather embarrassing turn of events) that Matthew ride back with the band. Gilbert and Matthew sat next to each other, squished next to the amp and trying to avoid all contact from the plentiful instruments poking at their bodies. It was awkward being so close to Gilbert, who couldn't keep his hands off of Matthew; it seemed inappropriate being so affectionate close to the band. Romance and music should've been separate for Gilbert, but he lived by his own rules and that was something Matthew had to learn to accept.

The van ride was way too quick, which was a relief, and Matthew even insisted on unloading some stuff which was dispersed evenly throughout Alfred's, Francis' and Gilbert's dorm rooms.

Matthew felt accomplished, and that was a weird feeling, especially it had no academic merit tied to the feeling.

Romance was weird like that.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: The story is now wrapping up! Two or three more chapters left. Hong Kong makes an appearance in this chapter as Henry Wang. Also, some heavy kissing ahead. Thanks for your patience waiting for this update.**

* * *

The date between Matthew and Gilbert was fast approaching. In fact, it was supposed to be tonight! The fair this afternoon had completely ruined Matthew's sense of time, which was typically impeccable. He had wandered back to his dorm when he realized that Gilbert had began discussing band-related stuff with Francis and Alfred in Francis' dorm on the other side of campus. It made sense that the band had to talk, as this was technically their first official gig (that wasn't playing for a relative as a favor).

Matthew had wandered back to his own dorm to check over his homework, and he then realized that was left alone with his thoughts in the comfort of his dorm. He shouldn't have succumbed to his emotions so easily, but he did. The anxious part of Matthew who was socially awkward in every situation imaginable, especially including that of the romantic persuasion, was afraid of what could happen.

 _What if he rejects me?_ Matthew thought in a moment of vulnerable frantic cleaning of his dorm. It took him nearly thirty minutes of vigorous cleaning to shake the irrational fear from looming over him, pressing down on shoulders like Sisyphus trying to push the enormous boulder up the mountain.

A knock came to his dorm door, and Matthew's heart dropped deep into his stomach.

"Coming," Matthew said, and scurried to open the door. It revealed Gilbert, and Matthew's heart exploded with joy. Gilbert took Matthew's hands and gave them a squeeze.

"Hey there, stranger," Gilbert said with a toothy smile that lit up his face, making him even more attractive in Matthew's eyes. He stepped through the threshold into the dorm, which was spotlessly clean.

"Someone's a neat-freak," Gilbert said absently.

"Well, I was excited to see you tonight," Matthew explained, his face tinged magenta. He suddenly couldn't look Gilbert in the eyes, which were such a bright and intense shade of blue that they could pass as bioluminescent.

"You fucking sap! I can't believe it," Gilbert said, his voice cracking in excitement. In a spontaneous moment of inexplicable feeling, Matthew pressed his lips against Gilbert's with a passion Matthew wished he could muster more often, placing his arms around Gilbert's waist and pulling him closer. Matthew planted his arms on Gilbert's hips to steady himself, and the silver haired guy's mouth felt warm against his own mouth. Gilbert wasn't shocked at this act of romantic spontaneity. In fact, he kissed back harder than Matthew ever expected, and a spark of electricity ran through Matthew's body, lighting him on fire from head to toe. Gilbert began putting his hands underneath Matthew's shirt, running his fingers up and down his spine. Matthew jumped back, breaking apart the kiss. His heart skipped a beat, and he wasn't sure how to process what just happened.

"You okay there, buddy?" Gilbert asked in a gentle tone, genuine in his confusion. Matthew took some deep breaths.

"This is...so much to process all at once," Matthew admitted, and he felt like a repressed prude for admitting it. Gilbert smirked. Matthew felt himself tense under Gilbert's strangely adoring gaze. Matthew was being a melodramatic idiot, but he couldn't stop.

"Don't be a moron," Gilbert chastised, "I love you. There really isn't much you can do wrong at this point."

"You just said you loved me," Matthew said with a grin.

"Yeah," Gilbert replied sheepishly, "I guess it does." A warm silence befell them, and then Gilbert perked up, but there was an underlying emotion Matthew couldn't detect.

"I just remembered something!" Gilbert exclaimed, and Matthew raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"...Do I want to know?"

"Yes you do. I lost a bet to my roommate. He thought that I'd be the first to admit I love you, and I said you'd be the first. So now you gotta meet my roommate, and I also owe him a substantial amount of money," Gilbert explained with his signature amount of frenetic energy and Matthew was dragged back to Gilbert's dorm before any reactions could be calculated.

"Hey, asshole," Gilbert greeted as he entered the dorm, which was chaos in comparison to Matthew's sleek and clean room. It was full to the brim with dirty laundry, muddy shoes, unread textbooks, old greasy pizza boxes, and lots of personal items that Matthew couldn't even identify. From underneath the covers of the bed came a slight young man, who looked disheveled and barely nineteen, if he was that old at all. His black hair was cut in a stylish way, with bangs covering what could only be dark, intense brows and framing an angular, attractive face. His eyes glowed with youthful energy, clouded by having been awoken from what could've only been described as a deep nap.

"Hey, dumbass. Who's the lanky weirdo behind you?" The dark haired guy, Gilbert's roommate, asked in a deadpan. His voice lilted in an interesting cadence that Matthew didn't recognize. Matthew waved, a reluctant motion, as he wasn't sure if being called a lanky weirdo was a compliment or not.

"The guy I said I loved. You won the damn bet, Henry, and I'll give you the money once my paycheck from the gig comes through." The dark haired guy, called Henry (as Matthew assumed), became more energetic and whooped. He fell out of bed, getting tangled in the covers along the way.

"I'm Henry Wang, by the way. I think you know my cousin, Yao," Henry introduced himself with an exaggerated half bow, half curtsying motion.

"Nice to meet you," Matthew giggled.

"God damn, Gil, you picked a guy who _giggles_? Damn, you must be head over heels if you can stand that," Henry said, and Gilbert

"Watch your tongue, you fetus. You're too young for that kind of language," Gilbert mocked, and Henry mimicked him in a high pitched moan.

"You sound too much like Yao and Arthur...combined. That's scary!" Henry said.

"Wait, do you mean Arthur Kirkland?" Matthew asked, overcome by a strange surge of shyness.

"Yeah, why?"

"Dude, Arthur's my cousin. Well, half-cousin. He and my half-brother Alfred are related in a super convoluted way," Matthew exclaimed.

"Shit! This web got super tangled like, really fast. I guess I like you now. Henry seal of approval!" Gilbert sighed dramatically and with an exaggerated flair.

"Thank god. I never thought you'd never say those words. Now you don't need to interrogate him as you planned."

"...The interrogation will still go as planned. Just not now, because you expect it. Now you two love birds go on your date before I puke. I don't wanna clean that up cause I've got too much to much to clean up as is." Gilbert and Matthew scurried out of the room hand in hand.

"So, Matt! What do you think?" Gilbert said, gesturing vaguely to the dorm.

"You mean Henry? He's a strange kid. I like him, though." Gilbert gave Matthew a quick peck on the lips.

"That was the right answer. Let's go out now."

Matthew grinned, squeezing Gilbert's hand. "That sounds nice about now."


End file.
